


A Marriage for Marco

by mrsredboots



Category: The Lost Prince - Frances Hodgson Burnett
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-09-01 20:06:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8636344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrsredboots/pseuds/mrsredboots
Summary: At age 21, Crown Prince Ivor Fedorovitch, aka Marco Loristan, needs to find a bride and beget an heir.  But who should he choose, and why?





	

His Serene Highness Crown Prince Ivor Fedorovitch of Samavia took the sword held out to him, and spoke, loudly and clearly, so that all present could hear:

“The sword in my hand – for Samavia.

“The heart in my breast – for Samavia.

“The swiftness of my sight, the thought of my brain, the life of my life – for Samavia.

“Here stands a man for Samavia.

And all present joined in “God be thanked!”

Marco – for so he was known to his friends and family – kissed the sword and handed it back to the King, his father, once known as Stefan Loristan. It was his 21st birthday, and he wished to dedicate himself publicly to the people of Samavia, as he had done privately since he was a very small boy indeed. “We don’t have any traditions for the coming-of-age of the heir to follow,” his father had said, “So we will create our own. You will take the oath publicly, in the Cathedral, and we will have a banquet afterwards. I wish we could afford to give everybody a good meal, but we can’t, but I think we could encourage people to have street parties, and to give what they have for communal feasts.”

This was done, and Marco knew, from his visits around town, that many streets were planning to hold parties in his honour. In the six years since his father had reclaimed the crown for the Fedorovitch, he had made himself much loved by his willingness to work alongside his future subjects, and his insistence that, where possible, housing should be better than it had been at any time in Samavia’s history. He had travelled all over Great Britain to visit model houses built by the Cadburys and Samuel Smiles, and the big blocks of flats being erected by the Guinness and Peabody trusts, and insisted that, while local housing should be typically Samavian rather than British, the comforts that the British planners had built into their homes should be duplicated in Samavia.

Melzarr was now almost completely rebuilt after the destruction of the civil war that had preceded the Restoration, as it was being called. But there were other towns and cities in the country that were less fortunate, as the budget for public works was very limited. Although other countries had done what they could to help, people were too poor for the money raised in taxation to go very far, and the Fedorovitches were reluctant to impose much in the way of taxes on a people who had already suffered so much.

Because money was short, the Fedorovitches had not thought it proper to hold an extravagant banquet, although most of the great and the good of Melzarr had been invited. The Council of Ministers, of which Marco had been a part since his seventeenth birthday, were, of course, all invited along with their wives and adult children. Baron Ratcliffe, usually known as “The Rat”, was especially delighted that Magdalena, the daughter of Count Vorversk, would be attending, since he and that young lady had an understanding that would, within the year, lead to marriage.

“We must start thinking of a wife for you,” said Count Vorversk, watching his daughter and the Rat out of the corner of his eye. While he both liked and admired the Rat, he was slightly sorry that it was he, rather than the Crown Prince, who had caught his daughter’s eye.

“Yes,” said Marco. “I will have to marry soon, I know.”

“Shall you marry a foreign princess, do you think? I know that both Beltraso and Jiardazia have princesses – or duchesses, in the case of Jiardazia – the right sort of age.”

“I don’t know yet,” said Marco, rather repressively. “I need to talk things over with my father.” And changed the conversation rather forcibly.

But later, when he was alone with his father, he raised the question again.

“I think the Council would like me to marry a foreign princess, and there are plenty to choose from. But, Father, I am not sure that would be the best thing for Samavia.”

King Ivor smiled, pleased that his son would put the good of the realm before any thought of his own happiness. He had been afraid, at first, that Marco would rebel against the necessarily harsh conditions of his childhood once he was happily settled, but he had become engrossed in helping the country to recover, and no thought of rebellion appeared to have crossed his mind.

“Why do you think that?” he now asked his son.

“Well, firstly, there is only one of me. And whichever country I chose a princess from would, naturally, become closer to us than anywhere else. And that could lead to diplomatic problems if there is to be another war. And then, a foreign princess couldn’t possibly feel about Samavia the way we do, the way you have taught me to think first of the good of Samavia.

“No, if I am to marry, and I quite see that I must, give me a woman who will work alongside me for the good of Samavia; give me a woman who will live with me in a model house or flat for a month or so to see what the conditions are like. Give me a woman who will teach groups of other women to knit, or to cook, or ­to grow vegetables. I don’t want a useless, pampered princess who only wants to look elegant and to know her people from a distance!”

“You have thought this through, I see,” said the King, drily.

“Yes, Father, I have. I don’t know where I would find such a woman, but I am sure she must exist!”

“I think you are very sensible. Your mother, after all, was no princess, but was very keen to stand with me in our struggle.”

“Tell me about her, Father. You were never able to tell me much about yourself, when I was a boy; I do understand that the less I knew, the better.”

“Yes. I remember once telling you I’d never lived in Samavia. That – well, I’m sorry, but that wasn’t actually true. I was born here, and lived here until I was 16, and later served in the Army. I couldn’t tell you, when you were young.”

“But you can tell me now?”

“Yes; now you are grown, and anyway, it doesn’t actually matter any more. My father was a lawyer, and we were, to all outward appearances, a comfortable, middle-class family. I had no idea that we were not. I had always known the story of the Lost Prince, of course, but as a legend, a fairy tale, nothing to do with me. I went to school with other boys my age, and generally had the kind of childhood I wish I had been able to give you.”

“It doesn’t matter, Father. I was not unhappy, you know.”

“I know you were not, but compared to my own childhood, you had a wretched time. But what I didn’t know was that my father, himself directly in line to the Fedorovitch throne, had founded the Forgers of the Sword organisation, and, when I was sixteen, he was arrested on a charge of treason. He managed to escape before he could be put on trial, but we had to flee the country. And then began the life you knew so well, of moving frequently, living in rented rooms, poverty. When I was 21, I was able to slip back into Samavia under an assumed name, and joined the Army, took a commission, and was back here for some years, during which I met your mother. And Lazarus, who was a member of the Forgers of the Sword, but also a non-commissioned officer. Again, we were happy for two years, but then the Forgers of the Sword were betrayed, again, and again we had to flee. Your mother was expecting you at the time, and, as you know, she didn’t survive your birth.”

Both men were silent for a moment, Marco thinking of the mother he had never known, and the King of the wife he had loved so dearly. “If you can find a woman one-tenth as wonderful as she was,” he said, softly, “you will be a happy man.”

“Maybe I will,” said Marco.

Now that the capital was beginning to feel it had recovered, Marco and the Rat were more and more being invited to parties held by the local barons and aristocrats. Many had been, by birth, either Maranovitch or Iarovitch, the two great dynasties who had torn the country apart for five hundred years, but they had sworn allegiance to the Fedorovitches once they had returned to the throne, and it seemed that they had meant it. There was, of necessity, a secret service whose duty it was to discover any discontent, and many who could not settle had left the country.

Marco found these parties boring, but dutifully attended a few. He soon realised, however, that the kind of young woman who preened and posed, hoping to catch his attention, was not the sort of young woman he wished to marry. Eventually he “made a strong call”, as he phrased it, in prayer, and the help came from a very unexpected quarter.

His friend, Judit, was a courtesan in the House of Madame Francesca, and Marco frequently patronised her, as much for the pleasure of her company as for the relief of his physical needs.

“How is Baron Ratcliffe,” Judit asked one evening. “We don’t see him here any more.”

“That’s because he is going to get married, and it wouldn’t be appropriate for him to come here, nor will it be for some years to come, if ever.”

“And you, will you not marry soon?”

“I must, of course. And then I shall have to stop coming here. But I really despair of finding the right person – I don’t want a decoration on my arm, I want someone who will stand beside me and help in the remaking of Samavia. There are times I wish I could marry you!”

Judit laughed. “Marry the Hungarian Whore? I don’t think so!”

“No, sadly, it wouldn’t be well-received. All the same, I’d rather marry a whore than a society lady.”

“Then don’t look in society!” exclaimed Judit. “Not all the daughters of the nobility spend their time looking decorative at balls! Actually, stop looking altogether – but spend time working with those who are already hard at work for Samavia. There are plenty, you know. You’ll find them in the knitting circles, the mission centres, the youth clubs, the ministries, even the shops and factories, for those who have no money and must work..... how did the Baron meet his bride-to-be, anyway?”

“She is the daughter of Count Vorversk – they met when he brought her to court. I think he wanted her for me, but she and the Rat just clicked, and that was all there was to it. I do envy him. Not that I want Magdalena Vorversk, she is far too bland for my taste, but I envy him being settled and knowing who he will marry. And they do love each other.”

“And you may not marry for love, but for expediency. I shall miss you, you know, when you no longer call here.”

“And I you,” said Marco, and proceeded to demonstrate how much. But Judit’s words remained with him, and he looked again at the women who he worked with, and who he came across in his visits to the social centres, the knitting circles, the schools, and so on.

And there, unexpectedly, he came across Elena.

Elena Marakova was the daughter of a minor baron, who had been a staunch supporter of the Iarovitch, and killed during the recent civil war. Her mother had fled the country with her, and they had only recently returned. During her years in exile, Elena had learnt that if she was to eat, she had to work, and on her return had taken a job in the Ministry of Reconstruction and Repair, of which Marco was the Minister of State. They had not come across each other, as Elena’s post was a very junior one, but she was talented and worked hard and, shortly after Marco’s discussion with Judit, received a promotion that did bring her into Marco’s orbit.

They first met when she brought some papers into his office for him to sign. He asked her to wait while he read them through, and then said, “Have you read these plans?”

“Yes Sir, I have.”

“What do you think of them?”

“Frankly, Sir, not a lot,” and Elena pointed out several places where the plans could be improved without spending any more money on the project. Marco was impressed, and said so.

“I’ve lived in that sort of house for the past few years,” she explained. “You can’t live in them without knowing how they could be improved.”

Marco grinned at her. “And you can’t know how they could be improved if you don’t live in them, right?”

“Absolutely, Sir!”

That was the beginning of it. Gradually, they got to know one another and realised they saw the future of the country very much the same way.

“I hope, before too long, we’ll be able to have elections, and a proper democratic government,” Marco said one day.

“And what does the King your father think of that?” asked Elena.

“He is all in favour. He says that the people need to feel they have a stake in their government. He would always remain Head of State, but he wants the people to choose their Prime Minister, and the members of the Council of Ministers.”

“What people would vote?”

“We think universal suffrage. Everybody over the age of 21.”

“Women, too?”

“I don’t see why not. I can see it might be a problem in a country like Great Britain, where men have always done the voting. But nobody has ever voted here – which is one reason why we can’t have elections just yet, as it will take a public education campaign to explain how it works. So there is no reason women shouldn’t have the vote as well as men. But it will be some years yet, I think.”

“Why?” asked Elena, reasonably.

“Because there are still too many Iarovitches and Maranovitches, and if we had a Parliament, it would be divided along those lines. I don’t want to wait too long, but it will be as well to wait another few years so that those old divisions are almost forgotten.”

“My family was Iarovitch, you know,” said Elena, sadly.

“I do know. But are you Iarovitch?”

“No. I was too young not to be when we had to flee, but the more I look back on those years, the gladder I am that we can all be Fedorovitch now.”

Gradually their friendship developed into something more, and within nine months, Marco proposed, and Elena accepted.

They were married in the great Cathedral of Melzarr, still without its roof, one hot and sunny summer’s day, when all the people of the city came out to cheer their beloved Crown Prince and his beautiful, hard-working bride.­

 

**Author's Note:**

> Again, I am sorry that I can't write the kind of stories I know you like, but, sadly, they are not at all to my taste and I can't write them. So I have written this additional story, and hope you like it.


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